Tuesday, June 14, 2011

All of Bengal can be found here. Not only facts, but her living soul: we feel her pulse as we turn the pages of galpaguccha.

Others have pointed out the accuracy of the stories as social documents. William Radice, a modern translator (Rabindranath Tagore – Selected Short Stories, Penguin Books) says:

Tagore's capacity for scepticism, mockery, and hard-headed rationality contributes just as much to his realism as does his awareness of grief and suffering.

Three enthusiasts (Soma and KumKum of the KRG, and Padmanabha Dasgupta) have devoted themselves in this 150th anniversary of Rabindranath's birth to reading and examining fifteen of his stories. Their commentary on the first five selected (Nashta Neer, Streer Patra, Monihara, Konkal and Kshudito Pashan) follows below.

KumKumOne can divide these stories into (a) tales that tell of visitants from the other world – Monihara, Konkal and Kshudito Pashan fall in this category. And (b) more complex stories, dealing with husband-wife relationships in typical affluent homes of nineteenth century Bengal: Nashto Neer and Streer Patra.

All five are gems among Tagore’s short stories. Four were made into successful, yet artistic, movies by great directors. We encounter apparitions of female ghosts in the two stories: Monihara and Konkal. As in life, so is in the afterlife, females are all different.

This is a hilarious story. The spirit tells her life story to the young man who, along with two others, used her skeleton to learn the names of the different bones in a human body. She was young and beautiful in life, but her fate was not so. Yet, she remained indomitable, and carefully schemed to have a second chance in life. When she encountered a road-block, she turned sinister, and killed the doctor she loved without remorse, and, killed herself, after meticulously planning the end. She desired to carry that mischievous smile of hers to death!

The most enchanting effect in this short story is the narrator’s gently teasing register of speaking, and the humor she could summon as she tells her tale, regardless of what life had thrown at her. And, ultimately, of course, she is the winner! For, the readers will always be tickled by this naughty ghost. It is a fantastic short story!

3. Kshudito Pashan is also a ghost story. It is set on a lavish scale: The free flowing river Shusta cascades down a hill which is covered by a thick forest. Its meandering course down the valley is comparable to the graceful movements of a dancing damsel. From the river bank, rose one hundred and fifty steps reaching the base of a huge, marble palace, that stood alone under the feet of the mountain.

The reader is instantly whisked away to a gilded time with court dancers, beautiful Iranian courtesans and more….while the solitary cry of the mad man in the neighborhood, heightens the spooky feelings.

This story has more visual charm. Thanks to Tagore's descriptive language, one can also sense the music and the whispering suspense that faintly reverberates through the narration. It’s an ideal story for a movie.

Here are a few passages that reflect the scene and the theme of the story wonderfully :

Now I shall take up the other two stories about marital relationships.

4. Nashto Neer :It is a beautiful story, but Satyajit Ray’s film Charulata, which is based on Nashto Neer, has definitely improved the presentation, and Tagore himself would have appreciated it. Tagore’s story needed Ray's tight editing, and the necessary alterations that he incorporated into the screenplay. Together, the two geniuses have created a masterpiece in Charulata.

5. Streer PatroThis has been one of my personal favourites. I also enjoyed the movie (by the same name) of the story. Mrinal was my heroine in youth. The way Tagore presented her in the story, mesmerised me in those impressionable days.

Last week, when I read “Streer Patra” again. I no longer felt the same way I used to about Mrinal. Obviously, something drastically changed in me since my initial encounter with Mrinal in my college days. I may even defy Tagore today, and stand in judgment about her, hoping Mrinal would excuse this turncoat acolyte.

Mrinal is the central character of this story. The whole story is narrated by her through the medium of a personal letter, addressed to her husband.

Mrinal is rather conceited, self-centered, opinionated, totally clueless, incurably romantic, stubborn and quite immature. She knows she is beautiful and that she is intelligent, and does not ever let us forget that. She makes open comparisons of her beauty and intelligence with those of other members of her husband’s family. Her sympathies lie with the family's cows or with the unfortunate sister of the sister-in-law. All that is fine. But when she totally fails her responsibilities as a wife at age 27 (no longer a child, therefore) it is unforgivable!

On a lark, I thought to put together a few lines on behalf of the hapless husband in the form of an imaginary response to Mrinal's audacious farewell letter. Here it is:

Priyo Mrinal,

I did not accompany you to Puri for I was in no need of the spiritual uplift that comes from visiting a holy place. I am not a religious person, as well you know. The only reason I vaguely thought of coming to Puri was to spend a few days by the sea with you and frankly talk about our marriage. It is a subject that definitely needed our combined attention.

But the distance that keeps us apart even when we are in the same house, in the same room, even in the same bed, would not have been any less had I accompanied you to Shri Kshetra. Our marriage and the subsequent fifteen years, only made us hardened strangers in the world of domesticity. Would you agree?

It is true you were chosen as my wife for your beauty. But being educated, and liberal in thought, I wished something deeper than beauty in my wife. And I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered your interest in reading and writing. I felt my silent wish for you was also granted.

You were a mere girl of twelve when we got married. I was doing my MA at the University, and later took to law. Your intellectual development flourished under my care. I supplied you with books that challenged and developed your intellect. I introduced you to Tagore and his liberating thought. This I did, without making you self-conscious. I also helped you with your writing. I was even a furtive admirer of your poems, it may surprise you to know.

But I never understood why you kept them secret from me. Yes, they had flaws; I did not see any great promise of your budding as a poetess. You lacked experience and skill in rhyme. Yet, I liked the poems, as they came straight from your heart. I waited for a day when you would share them with me, your husband who wished to be your friend, as well. Alas! I waited in vain, for that day never came in our fifteen years together.

When you turned seventeen I thought my touch would evoke a romantic response in you. But I was disappointed again. I was burning with desire; but you remained cool, aloof to my advances. You were not scared of me, and you talked non-stop when we were together in our room – about trivial matters and your angular interpretation of the day’s events. Strangely, you did not bother to know much about me. I entertained doubts about your intellectual ability too.

Then tragedy struck us. Our beautiful little girl died soon after she was born. Somehow you thought it was your personal tragedy. You withdrew even farther from me, deliberately, as though I was the cause of the child’s death. The whole thing seemed crazy to me, yet I remained a silent observer. It was a difficult childbirth, I almost lost you, as well. But thanks to that excellent British doctor, you survived.

You did not know how I mourned this tragedy in which I lost my only child, and nearly lost my wife. I never forgave myself for acquiring our daughter by what amounted to a rape. Sandhyatara, that loveliest of names. Mrinal, you refused to see beyond yourself.

Then, Bindu, appeared in our love-less, sullen lives. Suddenly, you found a cause to bring to the fore your combative self. Our whole family stood on one side, you ranged yourself on the other, holding Bindu close to you. That day, when I returned from work, I first heard the family’s version of the events. Later, you cornered me in my study. Your version was more rehearsed, dramatic and passionate and interspersed with tears.

I saw through your gambit to win me to your side against the family in this fight. I observed silently. My God, how manipulative you had become!

But I was determined, not to be swayed by your act. In fact, this Bindu woman did not mean a thing to me; it did not matter to me if she stayed or went. I had other problems of my own, which involved our marriage, you and me. I had no one to talk with about that, and remained silent through the whole drama.

You were not one to give up and accept my non-committal silence as an answer. Since you could not win me with your arguments, you held me tight and brought your beautiful face up close to me, so that I could see tears welling up those lovely eyes. Suddenly, I realised how beautiful you were. After our child died you had not been taking care of yourself, but ever since Bindu came, she took it upon herself to prettify you, my wife. Then, those heaving breasts innocuously reminded me of your scheme. And I shouted, rather loud: “No, if the family does not want Bindu to stay here, I insist that she go!”

You could not believe what you heard, nor could I, dear Mrinal. I felt that day something snapped in our already fragile relationship. I could see you too felt the signal.

Mrinal, I agree that you should cut yourself free from the sham of our marriage, and escape from my family. In all our fifteen years this relationship did not grow strong enough to hold us together. I admire your courage, I really do. You exceeded me there, and I am not too proud to admit it.

As always, you’re not good at planning. When you severed your connection with us, you did not think of your future finances. I will take care of that, not to worry.

"তোমাদের চরণতলাশ্রয়ছিন্ন" – thank you for saying this. I can walk away, free.

Sincerely,Rabindra, the interloper.

Soma

The common strain that runs through all the five stories is the
dissatisfaction of the female protagonists. This dissatisfaction and
their unfulfilled lives were primarily on account of their being women.

Konkal

The
nameless ghost of Konkal
used to be a beautiful woman, but is now reduced to a skeleton. Her
dissatisfaction runs deep, pursuing her beyond death, in her now pitiful
state. She described her husband as being terrifying. She felt like a
fish trapped by a fishing hook, pulled out by an alien being (namely
her husband), from the watery body of life. When he died, she was
labeled a “Vish Kanya” (Poisonous Woman) by her in-laws and
returned to her parental home like a piece of damaged furniture.

Brimming
with life and passion, in the height of her youth, she was left high
and dry to lead the life of a grieving widow of an unloved husband,
until death released her. The life of a Hindu widow was tough indeed
in her time. She was luckier than most other women like her because
she had a caring brother. But there was no solace, and no extinction
of the passionate fire that burned within her. She still had a
longing for love and sexual desires just any other normal human being
of her age; those did not burn to ashes on the funeral pyre of her
husband. Shoshishekhar could have married her that would have solved
a lot of problems. But he neither had the strength nor the gumption
to defy social norms and marry a widow.

When
Shoshishekhar arranged his marriage with another woman, who would
also bring in a fat dowry, our protagonist could not contain her
sense of betrayal. She poisoned him and herself. She dressed as a
bride before she died. She would have lived a happy and contented
life if allowed to marry again; but what was possible for widowers
was not allowed to widows.

Khudito
Pashaan

Khudito
Pashaanis a thriller, which is cleverly left
unfinished by the author. The reader is left unfulfilled, longing to
know what happened to the Iranian slave girl. There is no fully
formed female protagonist in this story. The ghosts haunt the palace
every night. No one survived a prolonged stay in the premises
excepting for the madman who still stalks the grounds. The phantasmal
experience entraps the story teller just like the beautiful ghosts
who are entrapped in time, playing the same scenes as if in a play,
again and again; till the victim joins them in death. Khudito
Pashaan, literally means hungry stones. The hunger remains
unsatisfied.

Monihara

Monihara
narrates the story of an unsatisfied woman who sought
fulfillment in her ornaments.

The
narrator of the story is a man who makes sarcastic remarks about the
disadvantages of college education in women. In his opinion, what
women really want is confined by their taste for raw, tart mangoes,
spicy chilies, and a strong, domineering husband. Indeed!!!!

Thus
Monimallika was painted as a self-centered, conniving woman, who
loved her ornaments more than anything else. The husband is described
as a loving, harmless creature, who did all he could to make his wife
happy. The narration carries on, dripping with sarcasm about women
who revel in captivating wild men and utterly frustrated when they
encounter a tame man, because they do not need to use all their
allure, handed down from mother to daughter through generations, as
an entrapment device. It seems that Monimallika was spoilt by the
generosity of her husband who provided her with expensive clothes and
ornaments.

Monimalika
has been described as woman of few words, who is aloof by nature; she
did not gossip with neighbours nor did she entertain Brahmins and
beggars; she was not wasteful, was hard working, preferred to work
instead of keeping an army of servants which she could well afford
to. How dare she be different from most women around her who reveled
in their cackling gossip sessions, who spent their time and energy
observing endless, meaningless rituals, feeding Brahmins and beggars
for the salvation of their souls.

Monimalika’s
other crimes were that she was beautiful, maintained her
youthfulness, and she was childless (in India childlessness is still
the biggest crime for a woman, it’s always the woman’s fault, no
one asks whether the husband was impotent or unable to impregnate).
She was labeled ‘frigid’; her cold heart was incapable of
entertaining the fire of love. The narrator goes on to describe the
do's and don’ts of being a proper husband who is able to ‘extract’
love from his wife. Tagore affects a tongue-in-cheek reaction to this
mentality in the form of laughter, which sounded like the calls of foxes in
the nearby bushes.

Monimalika’s
flight with her ornaments shows the basic insecurity she suffered
from. Something was missing in her life. She replaced this
‘something’ with material things, that she would cling to, which
may have grown into an obsession. Thus the drastic reaction when
Phonibhushon wanted to pawn her ornaments to make good the losses in
his business. She panicked as her security was in danger of being
taken away from her. She did not “run away” with Modhushudan, he
was merely a travel companion. She had no trust in him, so she wore
all her ornaments; she would have to be killed to be parted from
them.

Satyajit
Ray incorporated a concrete ending to the tale in his movie version
of Monihara. Ray depicted Monimalika as coming back from the
dead to retrieve the new pearl necklace which Phonibhushon bought for
her. Tagore in the original story keeps the reader guessing… Did
Monimalika’s ghost come back to take Phonibhushon with her? Or was
Phonibhushon sleep walking?

Noshto
Neer

The
female protagonist of Noshto
Neer, Charulata was an intelligent woman. What ailed her
were inactivity and boredom. Bhupoti was immersed in his work and had
no time to spare for Charu, which resulted in her emotionally
straying towards a young and vibrant Amol. Bhupoti and Charu were
like a pair of parallel lines, used to being side by side without
actually meeting at any point. Bhupoti is immersed in his newspaper,
and Charu is left emotionally unfulfilled. Material comforts and
objects are not enough to satisfy an intelligent woman.

Tagore
put Nonda as a stark contrast. If Charu was Nonda, she would have
been quite satisfied with married life; she would not have craved for
emotional or intellectual gratification.

When
his newspaper collapsed, Bhupoti sought Charu as a replacement, but
Charu was not an inanimate object whose emotions and affections could
be switched on and off at will. Bhupoti tried but his efforts were
too little, too late. When he realised Charu’s soft corner for Amol
his sense of betrayal was extremely selfish, just as a man might be
expected to react. He understood that Charu wanted to leave Amol’s
memories behind and start afresh with him in a far off place. But the
man in him rejected her because of her emotional infidelity; to him
she was tainted thus her company unbearable. He wanted to be alone as
far away from her as possible.

Charu
sensed this, and life drained from her face and being. Bhupoti
quickly wanted to make amends by offering to take her with him. But
Charu declined with whatever dignity she was left with.

Streer
Potro

Mrinal
of Streer Potro was
beautiful and intelligent. A beautiful wife is treated like an
expensive piece of furniture; she should be seen, but mute. For a
woman, being intelligent is a curse indeed, as she cannot be confined
to a narrow world, and be satisfied with material comforts and
endless, inane rituals.

Mrinal
did not while away time like most women of well-to-do families of her
times. She was compassionate, though childless; she decided to shower
her love on the cows reared in her household. She even saved a young
goat from being butchered and eaten by the family. The appearance of
Bindu was like a ray of light to her mundane world. Borobou, Mrinal’s
sister-in-law was resigned to her fate but Mrinal fought against it
all.

Bindu
was just like the hapless little goat, at the mercy of Mrinal’s
marital family for her very existence, for she had nowhere to go.
Given a chance she would have existed unnoticed in an obscure corner
of the huge household, sheltered by Mrinal’s love. But this was not
to be, Bindu was torn away from Mrinal to be married off to a mad
man. She ran away from him and returned to Mrinal as a last attempt
to live. But seeing Mrinal’s position compromised, she went back to
her marital house. Mrinal fought against all odds, and roped in her
brother Sarat to help Bindu to escape with her to Puri.

But
it was too late, Bindu had committed suicide.

Why
do the Bindus have to die this way time and again? Why can’t they
be treated with human dignity? Their only fault is that they are born
female. All the women in the five stories had to die or were denied
justice because they were women. Being intelligent was their biggest
draw back; even their beauty could not protect them from a tragic
fate.

Tagore
wrote about them a hundred years ago but we still get to see
Monimalika, Charulata, Mrinal, Bindu and the unnamed ghosts of Konkal
and Khudito Pashaan, amongst us even today. Truly unfortunate
are those who live, day after day, the life of the living dead, bound
by invisible chains; only their wretched intelligence keeps ticking,
counting hours, minutes, seconds – awaiting death to set them
free.

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